


A Friendly Request (AU)

by Tunalocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Chemistry, Dom John, Dom Sherlock, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Punklock, Rough Oral Sex, Science Experiments, Sub John, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Switch John, Switch Sherlock, Tattoos, Unilock, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tunalocked/pseuds/Tunalocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU of an AU created by  QueerSherlockian (Anglophile_Fiend)</p><p>John Watson's Chemistry Professor, Dr Sherlock Holmes, is the essence of queer;  with his tight purple trousers, flamboyant personality, and overwhelming obsession with tattoo ink. John can't help but be drawn to him; however, it all comes at a cost...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John absentmindedly gnawed at his pencil’s eraser, as his eyes remained fixed on his professor who was pacing the lecture theatre, to and fro, like a caged tiger plotting its daring escape.

John’s mind began to wander as his focus drifted from the lecture material to his professor’s soft, sensuous lips.

The man spoke with such passion and yet he seemed oddly distant from his speech.

John was endlessly fascinated with him, although he couldn’t hear a damned word he was saying.

John’s eyes were so glazed over in lust he was starting to get tunnel vision. He started mentally undressing the personification of sexual frustration before him. He couldn't help but stare at his professor’s very suggestive deep purple trousers, that seemed to hug him in all the right places.

 _So much for professionalism_ , John thought.

Striking, was the word for it.

From the first moment he clapped eyes on Dr Holmes, John was struck.

First of all, Dr Holmes wasn’t your “typical” professor-type. One would expect their chemistry professor to be clad in some tweed jacket with neatly pressed trousers and ridiculous mismatched knee-height socks that are clearly visible at the ankle because the clot insists on wearing a belt AND braces.

No, Dr Holmes was much, much different than your average everyday professor.  He wasn’t one for conventionalities, which was painfully evident by his hair and choice of attire. His head was shaved on the sides and yet the raven curls on top of his head remained rather long, in a sort of tousled Mohawk. His clothes were too tight for his age, or any age for that matter. All of his parts were covered but there was little left to the imagination.

His trousers were so tight, John couldn’t help but try and find the faintest outline of his cock.

If only they were a bit tighter, John thought, moving forward in his seat to get a better look. How he wished he had brought his glasses that afternoon. What he wouldn’t give for a good look; something to spark his imagination.

John’s was on the very edge of his seat when Dr Holmes struck the podium with his fist.

John jolted and his pencil dropped from his mouth and on to the floor.

John’s heart was drumming so loud in his ears he swore the whole class could hear it, and he did not dare to move a single muscle.

“Adrenaline,” Dr Holmes said in a low, sultry tone as he strode over to John’s desk. “Races throughout the bloodstream to its peripheral targets, upsetting every organ system in its wake.”

Dr Holmes arrived right in front of John’s desk and locked eyes with him. John just stared up at the magnificent man, in complete awe. His eyes were such a gorgeous shade of blue/green with just the faintest touch of brown, scattered throughout his iris in little gold flecks. John could have stared into his eyes for centuries and never fully comprehended their depth and beauty.

“The heart rate increases, pupils dilate, your palms begin to sweat, your salivary secretions cease,” Dr Holmes explained.

John gulped pointedly, being dragged out of his daydream and back into the real world where he was being torn to pieces by Dr Holmes’ hawk-like gaze.

Suddenly, Dr Holmes spun around, and folded at the waist like a yogi to pick up John’s errant pencil, and John’s breath hitched in his throat. His brain flat-lined as he stared at his professor’s perfectly ample and pert bum, not six feet from his face.

 _Closer_ , John bade, biting his lip to restrain his squeak.

Dr Holmes stood once more, pencil in hand, and locked eyes with John once more.

“How about sex?” he asked.

John flushed bright red as he began to stutter a, “Wh-w-what?”

“Sex? Surely you’ve heard of it,” Dr Holmes teased as he sauntered back to the middle of the room, all the while, twirling John’s half-eaten pencil between his finger tips.

John slunk into his seat as the sound of snide laughter filled the theatre.

Dr Holmes furrowed his brows at the class as he shuffled his papers.

“Well, Mr Watson?” he prompted once more. “Do you believe sex works via a sympathetic or parasympathetic pathway?”

“Both?” John answered without thinking it through thoroughly.

A fleeting smirk tugged at the corner of Dr Holmes’ lips.

He was impressed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Holmes? Impressed? That NEVER happens!” Mike Stamford said as he stuffed his face with another pasty. “Good, God, his course always leaves me an absolute wreck!”

“Take it easy,” John said as Mike reached for his third pasty.

“I can’t help it! You know how worried I get after one of his lectures, with him stalking us, ready to pounce,” Mike continued to fret as he nervously nibbled on his food. “I’m a month behind and it’s only the second day!”

“Don’t worry, the material is simple enough, you just have to read the-“

“Ahck,” Mike interjected. “Read the book? Do you listen to yourself? Who actually reads the book?”

“Jim’s been reading the book before courses even began.”

“Yes, well Jim’s a freak.”

“He isn’t all bad,” John shrugged.

“Every mushroom cloud has a silver lining?”

“I’m just saying, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Okay, mum,” Mike teased, continuing to cram as much food into his chubby cheeks as he could manage. “I gotta run!” he said, taking one last swig of tea, and hobbling away towards the hospital they called home.

Bart’s wasn’t exactly the best equipped teaching hospital; in fact it was quite out-dated and the patients weren’t all that ill, but John had little choice in schools.

He had neither friends nor family in London, yet he was irrevocably drawn to the urban cesspool into which all the lowlifes and petty criminals inevitably drained.  And with John’s history, it was indeed the place for him.

Bart’s was the only school willing to overlook John’s record and allow him admission.

John should have felt gratitude, but all he possessed was a deep, sickening resentment.

_What makes them think they are so much better than me?_

 

* * *

 

John arrived home late, after wandering the park alone for hours, only to find Jim Moriarty using his bed.

“Oi!” John shouted. “What are you doing in MY bed?”

Jim lazily glanced up from his book and gave John a look from head to toe, sizing him up.

“Problem?” he asked with a long drawl.

“That’s my bed!” John reiterated.  

“We said we’d switch.”

“We never!” John cried out.

“Relax, you can be top tonight,” Jim said with a smirk.

“No, no,” John protested, running his hand through his hair nervously. “I can’t.”

“Afraid of heights, Johnny-boy?” Jim teased.

“Don’t worry,” Mike sighed, walking into the room with his toothbrush in hand. “I’ll be top tonight.

Jim chuckled maliciously as he settled back down in John’s bed to read his book.

“I’m sorry,” John sighed.

“Think nothing of it,” Mike said, as he started climbing the ladder.

John crawled into the bottom bunk and lay down on his side so he could glare at Jim.

He had to the take the only single bed. The one perfectly positioned by the window with easy access to the electric socket.

John truly hated Jim sometimes. He acted like he could get away with murder; which most were apt to believe. His entitlement and warped personality made him well hated among his colleagues but he was wicked clever and good in a pinch if one ever needed anything they couldn’t get their hands on themselves.

The bed above John creaked disdainfully and started to sink in, outlining Mike’s plump arse.

John glared harder at Jim, mentally burning a hole through his forehead. Jim just giggled to himself as he turned the page.

 _“You little shit,_ ” John muttered under his breath.

“Sweet dreams, Johnny-boy!” Jim called out as he turned off his bedside lamp, casting the room in darkness.

John rolled over on to his back and rested his hand on his stomach, lifting his shirt ever so slightly, to trace his bare skin with his fingertips. He dragged his tongue over his lips slowly, as he generated a mental image of Dr Holmes’ arse once more.

The damned thing had been plaguing his mind all evening, making him ache.

He kept playing the scene, over and over again, until it made him throb. His hand ventured its way to the waist of his jeans, where it toyed with the button, teasing it open.

John listened in closely to the soft breathing patterns of his roommates as he slowly slid his hand down the front of his pants.

He gripped himself firmly before dragging his palm all the way down to cup his balls. He fiddled with himself, filling his head with thoughts of Dr Holmes and his deep, rich voice that made him shudder from head to toe.

John’s breathing increased as his blood began to shunt to his cock, filling it fully.

 _Both_ , he repeated in his mind. _Mmm both._

“ _Both,_ ” he whispered, with a small moan as he gripped his length and began to stroke himself slowly and deliberately.

 _“You’re so clever John,_ ” he imagined Sherlock whispering in his ear. “ _Touch it. I want you to feel me. Touch it, John_.”

John’s eyes fluttered shut and his jaw went slack as he became consumed with his fantasy.

“ _Harder,_ ” his imaginary professor bade. “ _I want you to take it. Take it, John.”_

By now John was completely hard and irrevocably horny. He slid down his pants further to free his captive cock. He threw the blanket over his lap and continued to shimmy out of his jeans.

He lifted his hips and spread his legs to gain better access his bum, where he pressed his fingertips to his puckered entrance, willing his way in. He stroked himself in earnest as his middle finger breached his greedy hole.

His finger stroked his velvety cavern, in desperate search for that spot.

John gyrated his hips, stimulating himself on his finger, while continuing to aggressively shake the very life out of his raging hard-on.

His heart began to race, his palms started to sweat, and his mouth went dry.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John whispered. “ _Fuck me, Mr Holmes._ ”

“ _Think_ ,” his fantasy professor told him. “ _Why is it both_?”

_Parasympathetic, the vessels dilate, allowing for penile erection, cutting off venous return. The prostate and seminal vesicles secrete their fluids… but then the messenger changes. Noradrenaline is released; the heart rate increases, the vessels constrict, blood pressure rises, until finally…_

“Cum,” John moaned a bit too loud as his pelvic muscles tensed and jerked as cum spilled out of his cock and on to his abdomen.

John let out a deep sigh as his body relaxed once more and he could finally settle in for a good night’s sleep, filled with thoughts of Dr Holmes and his tight purple trousers.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Tensions ran high as Dr Holmes’ lectures became more and more disorganised and the concepts became ever more complex.

“What does this have to do with Biochem?” the students would complain.

Lab practicals, were anything but practical.  Dr Holmes would hover over the frightened students’ shoulders and without warning shout out, “Wrong!” thus dismissing them for the afternoon with failing marks.

John was the only one that didn’t appear shaken when he was under Dr Holmes’ relentless scrutiny. Which was surprising when one considered all the perverted thoughts that were running through John’s head.

“Good,” Dr Holmes would praise, much to the other students’ dismay. “You have a steady hand, John.” 

John felt his knees weaken at the mention of his name, yet his grip remained firm on the eye dropper, keeping the drops at an even size and steady rate. The stir bar swirled in the beaker, clinking against the sides every so often, making John worry that it might start to rattle unevenly.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock assured him as he reached around John and moved the beaker towards the centre of the hot plate. “I’ve got you,” he said in a hushed whisper as held the beaker steady.

John’s skin prickled as he felt Dr Holmes’ hot breath on the back of his neck.

“Steady now,” Dr Holmes warned. “Almost there.” 

John felt his intermittent tremour, threatening to make its appearance, as his nerves flared, making it hard for him to concentrate on the task at hand.

“That’s it, a little more,” Dr Holmes assured him as he stepped in closer brushing the inside of his bicep against John’s upper-arm. John caught a glimpse of Dr Holmes’ wrist and what looked like red ink. 

John’s mind began to whirl and his vision blurred. Any closer and Dr Holmes would be flush against his backside. Oh what John wouldn’t have given for Dr Holmes to grind up against him.

“Stop!” Dr Holmes cried out, just in time. “That’s it!”

Dr Holmes withdrew the beaker and held it to the light.

“Don’t you see it?” he asked John excitedly.

“Erm,” John said, squinting to see.

“Of course you don’t, you’re in dire need of eyeglass, my dear boy,” Dr Holmes, said clamping a hand on to John’s shoulder, which sent a jolt throughout John’s spine. “This is your victory, go show your fellow classmates your success.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, nervously clearing his throat, as he did his best to conceal his front with his lab-notebook.

Just as he started to hobble away, beaker in hand, Dr Holmes called out once more, “And John, if you would visit my office after lab, I have a proposition for you!”

The other students snickered as John’s ears turned red from embarrassment.


	4. Chapter 4

John looked over the syllabus once more.

“221…” he said to himself. “There’s 221, where’s 221-B? B? Basement?”

John rounded the corner to see 223 and 225.

“221,” he repeated. “2-2-1... Oh!” he exclaimed as he noted the little emblem of a honeybee on the door. “221-Bee.”

John rapped on the door and pulled back his sleeve to look at his wrist-watch.

_Ten minutes late. Damn it all._

“Mr Holmes! It’s me, John!” he called out. “I’m sorry I’m late, I…” John listened in at the door and heard a muffled cry. “Dr Holmes?” he asked, pressing open the door against his better judgment.

John looked about to see everything but a Dr Holmes. John was struck with wonderment at all the fascinating things cluttering Dr Holmes’ office. From human skulls, to taxidermy bats, beetles and bees, and a black spray painted bison skull adorning the wall, with what looked to be headphones covering its eye sockets.

“Do you like it?”

John jolted and spun about on his heels to face Dr Holmes.

“I-I…” John stammered with wide-eyed fear.

“I made it myself. Thought it added a je ne sais quoi to the place,” he chuckled as he took his seat at his desk. “Have a seat,” he insisted.

John looked about to find a chair.

“I could have sworn I had another one in here,” Dr Holmes hummed as he crossed his legs. “I’m sure Mrs Hudson has a spare… You see I don’t get many visitors.”

“Mrs Hudson? Is she a professor?” John asked, taking a seat on an overturned crate.

“What? No, she’s more of a… glorified house-keeper, but you mustn’t tell her I said so.”

John nodded in agreement.

“Down to business then,” Dr Holmes said, clapping his hands together. “What would you say to fulfilling your electives this term? No, no, shut-up,” Dr Holmes said, waving his hand dismissively. “What would you say to fulfilling them with me?”

“I, erm.”

“As my assistant.”

John felt a chill run up his spine as he assuredly misheard Dr Holmes say _“arse-sistant”_

“Relax, you needn’t do much. You’re merely filling in for a position I normally reserve for my skulls,” he said, pointedly giving one a gentle pat. “I think better when I speak out loud; sometimes I don’t talk for days. Paradoxical, isn’t it?” Dr Holmes said with a forced grin. Sensing his apprehension, he added, “Think of this as a friendly request.”

John’s eyes inadvertently snapped to the spot on Dr Holmes’ wrist he had seen early which was now slightly more exposed, revealing more red ink.

“You like tattoos,” Dr Holmes stated, rather than asked. “Well you’re in for a surprise then…”

John slid forward to the edge of the crate to get a better look as Dr Holmes unbuttoned his sleeve and began rolling it up to reveal his forearm.

Like a moth to the flame, John was inexplicably drawn to the human canvas Dr Holmes had made of himself. He rose from his makeshift chair and stepped forward to see the ink in further detail.

“It’s a Phoenix,” John said, daring to lean in to see it closer.

“Icarus,” Dr Holmes corrected.

John squinted and leaned in even closer.

Dr Holmes quickly withdrew his arm and buttoned his cuff once more.

“A cautionary tale of hubris.”

John snorted a laugh, “Well it looks like a Phoenix to me.”

“I can assure you it’s a young boy being incinerated by the sun.”

“Sure,” John said, taking a seat once more.

Dr Holmes gave him an odd look.

“What’s wrong with being reborn from ashes?” John asked, crossing his arms. “Why is it such a crime to fly too close to the sun? To have your moment in the spotlight?”

“Perhaps your probation officer has an explanation.”

John’s jaw clenched shut as his remark.

“So which was it, drugs or alcohol?”

John stood up and started gathering his things.

“You know,” John choked out. “I thought you of all people…” he stopped and steadied his breathing, sucking back his tears. “That you of all people would understand.”

“Oh sit, down,” Dr Holmes said with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Now, sit or I’ll fail you or something…”

John rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

“Goodbye, Dr Holmes!”

“Sherlock,” he replied sheepishly.

“What?” John asked, taken-aback. He turned to see Dr Holmes looking up at him with woeful eyes.

“Call me Sherlock.”


	5. Chapter 5

“He _what_?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘call me Sherlock'. He looked real upset," John added with a heavy sigh.

“You poor thing, now hold still or I’ll make a mess of your cuticles.”

“My what?” John asked looking down at his fingers.

“Some Doctor you’ll make,” Mary teased. “Don’t even know proper anatomy of your own fingernails.”

“And you’re sure it will come off?”

“A bit of nail varnish remover will take care of it, now stop moving!”

“It tickles,” John laughed. “Next you’ll be wanting to put blue streaks in my hair.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Mary hummed. “Hold on.”

“You’re not…” 

John blew on his fingernails to dry them while Mary searched through her rather large stash of hair-care products and make-up.

“Just the fringe,” she assured him.

“If my sister ever found out-“

“Relax, I know what I’m doing. Now when did you last wash your hair?”

“This morning.”

“Good, it should only take three hours.”

“Mary,” John whined. “I’ve got lecture tomorrow, I can’t be up all hours of the night.”

“Where is your sense of adventure?”

“It isn’t permanent, is it?”

“Now, would I put anything in your hair that was permanent?”

John remained perfectly still as Mary started running her hands through his hair; playfully, spiking it this way and that. Threatening his livelihood whenever his hands ventured to close to his hair.

After three hours of patiently waiting, Mary finally allowed John to see his hair in the mirror. 

John ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head.

“You don’t like it,” Mary remarked.

“I do, it’s just…”

“You don’t like it,” she repeated with an annoyed sigh. “It’s fine, you can wash it out if you would like.”

“I can’t possibly show up to lecture with my hair like this.”

Mary pursed her lips and pointed towards the loo.

John thought it best not to start an argument late at night; especially an argument he could never win.

He retreated to the bathroom and started the bath’s tap.

After six or so washes, John started to worry.

“Mary! It won’t come out, Mary! Help!”


	6. Chapter 6

John knew he was only delaying the inevitable. He would have to see Dr Holmes and he would have to do it with bright blue hair and black nail varnish.

The best he could do was pull up his coat’s hood and stuff his hands in his pockets.

Dr Holmes strode into the room like his normal pompous self and walked right by John without giving him so much as a passing glance.

John sunk into his seat even further, feeling a sense of relief. However, as the lecture progressed John became less at ease.

_Why won’t he look at me?_

John watched as Dr Holmes purposely ignored the entire left side of the lecture theatre and refused to acknowledge John’s existence. Granted, Dr Holmes didn’t usually give John his full and undivided attention, but he would at least make eye contact with him every so often.

John started glaring at Dr Holmes.

_If that’s how he’d like to play it._

John pointedly pulled back his hood, revealing his tuft of blue hair. He crossed his arms and waited.

When Dr Holmes happened to glance over in his direction, he did a double-take.

For a moment, the lecture hall was dead silent.

“Isthebindtheleaving,” Dr Holmes stammered.

John did his best to remain calm and collected, but his heart fluttered ever so slightly.  

“It’s the erm, the di-alykyl ether leaving group that…” Dr Holmes began blinking rapidly. “Excuse me.”

And with that, Dr Holmes left. The room was quickly filled the sounds of chatter.

“Did he just leave?”

“Is he done?”

“Can we leave?”

Mike Stamford leaned forward and poked John on the shoulder, “What’s with the hair mate?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John said, gathering his things to leave.

John made a point of it to leave before Mike had the chance to bombard him with questions or ask about his “feelings”.

The man of his dreams had fled after catching one glimpse of his hair. John felt like such an idiot, he just wanted to go home and hide away for the rest of his life.

“John,” a voice whispered in the shadows.

John started walking faster.

“Slow down.”

“Leave me alone,” John hissed.

“Johnny-boy,” Jim said softly.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

Jim just smiled as he caught up and matched John’s pace perfectly.

“I like your hair,” he said, reaching out to touch the tip of John’s fringe.

John pulled away in repulsion and glared at Jim.

“What do you want?” John asked with a scowl.

“I thought I’d walk you home. London can be dangerous at this hour.”

“At three in the afternoon?” John scoffed. “And I’m not going home.”

Jim continued to walk with him, shoulder to shoulder. It was bad enough John had to share a room with him, last thing he needed was Jim following him about like a lost puppy.

“I heard what you said about me,” Jim whispered.

“You what?” John asked, stopping dead in his tracks. “When?”

“I don’t think you’re half-bad yourself."

John felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“If you’re not doing anything tonight…” Jim started.

John found himself speechless.

“I’m not-“

“Great!” Jim interjected. “The Fox? Say, 6ish?” he asked, but before John had the chance to respond, Jim started walking away. “I’ll see you there!”

“Shit,” John cursed as Jim rounded the corner and disappeared from view. John ran his hand through his hair and looked towards the ceiling, “Why me?”

“Because you just don’t know when to say ‘no’.”

John turned to see Dr Holmes, standing in the doorway of his office, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.

“Flatmate?” Dr Holmes inquired.

“Roommate,” John corrected. “I share a room with him and-“

“Stamford.”

“How did you know?” John asked with a confused look.

“He’s out of deodorant and uses your shampoo from time to time as well. Oh and he’s the one that stole your razor blade, he’s been using it to shave his-“

“Alright, alright,” John interjected. “Look, I best be going.”

“You have until 6,” Dr Holmes reminded him. “Come inside, I have something I want to show you. Perhaps it might change your mind.” 

“Change my mind to what?”

“Come, you’ll see,” Dr Holmes beckoned with a grin.

John’s grip tightened on the shoulder strap of his rucksack as he took a peak into Dr Holmes’ office.

“Come closer, you’ll never see it from there with your eyesight.”

John took a few, tentative steps forward to see a jar in the middle of Dr Holmes’ conspicuously clear desk. Obviously whatever was in this jar was of the utmost importance to him.

“It’s a honeycomb,” John remarked.

Dr Holmes let out a heavy sigh, “You see, but you do not observe.”

John looked in even closer to see little squirming larvae with big, black eyes.

“Cool,” John said with a grin.

_They’re like baby bees; babees._

Dr Holmes gave him a pleased look. “They’re being bathed in royalactin.”

“So you’re raising queen bees?”

“Precisely.”

“And you need me as a research assistant?”

“For this? No,” he laughed. “This was just a ploy to get you in the door. What I have planned is much more interesting.”

“What do you have planned for me then?” John blushed.

“Be my partner and you will find out.”

John’s ears felt like they were burning, caught under the relentless gaze of his professor.

“I need to know you’re committed, before I take this any further,” Dr Holmes said, taking a step closer, closing the gap between them and making John even more uncomfortable. “Do I have your word?”

John felt his knees go weak underneath him as he felt Dr Holmes’ hot breath on the nape of his neck.

“I’ll do it.”


	7. Chapter 7

John just stood there, staring at the pile of body parts on the cold slab, in the even colder morgue.

This was not what he was expecting, not at all.

“Double homicide, I need to sort out who’s who.”

“This is my incentive?” John asked in shock. “I have deadlines, Sherlock.”

It still felt bizarre calling his professor by his first name. John felt a small flutter in his chest every time the name crossed his lips.

_Sherlock._

“Come now, a man’s alibi depends on it,” Sherlock scolded, snapping John out of his daydream.

John pulled on his gauntlets and tightened his facemask.

“You owe me,” John mumbled.

Sherlock picked up a perfectly intact eyeball with a pair of metal tongs and held it up for John to see.

“Female, age 65.”

“You can’t tell all that from an eye,” John scoffed.

“No, but I can tell she was a diabetic, going by the extensive retinopathy.”

“You said ‘she’.”

“Of course, isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked looking John over carefully.

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“Then you still have much to learn.”

They sifted through body parts for the better half of the afternoon, in complete silence, focused on the task at hand.

“What’s her name?” Sherlock asked letting out a sigh as he removed his gauntlets 

“I… I don’t-“

“Come now, she must have a name,” Sherlock said with clear agitation as he removed his mask.

“How could I possibly know?” John asked. “She’s just bits and pieces…”

“Your hair!” Sherlock said condescendingly, waving his hand about in the air.

“Oh,” John said with a bit of surprise. “Mary... she did the nails as well.”

Sherlock mopped the sweat from his brow and bit as his lower lip in frustration. John was becoming concerned the sudden mood swing. He began to doubt Sherlock’s mental stability.

 _What’s brought this on? We were getting on so well, not two seconds before._  

“I need another,” Sherlock said nervously, his hands started to shake as his upper lip began to sweat. 

“Another what?”

Sherlock pushed straight past him, shoving him aside in his race to the door.

“Sherlock!” John cried out after him as Sherlock slammed the heavy door shut, leaving John all alone in the morgue.

John felt a chill run up his spine as the panic started to set in. The lights flickered above head and suddenly everything felt much colder.

John ran to the door and swung it wide open, nearly bowling over the hospital registrar who was clinging onto her clipboard for dear life.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Where’s he off to?” John asked in an accusatory voice.

“He’s… He does that,” she shrugged. “Always running about. I’m Molly by the way, Molly Hooper,” she said, extending her hand.

John ignored her as he threw his hair bonnet in the bin and started removing his shoe covers.

“I can’t believe he would just leave like that.”

“He’s Sherlock,” Molly laughed nervously. “It’s what he does.”

“Yes well, thank you… Maggie.”

“Molly,” she corrected politely. “And don’t worry about the mess I’ll-“

“Ta,” John said in a hurry.

“Later,” John heard Molly whisper softly as he left the room.

He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. He felt like an utter cock for treating… what’s-her-name like that. He just couldn’t believe Sherlock would leave like that, without any sort of explanation.

Unfortunately, John had other, much bigger, problems to deal with.

It was nearly six and he was struggling to come up with a sound plan. He couldn’t possibly stand Jim up and return home later that evening, but he also couldn’t go out on a _date_ with him.

 _Perhaps it isn’t a date,_ John thought. _And perhaps the pope isn’t Catholic._


	8. Chapter 8

John spotted Jim straight away. He was seated at a table in the corner of the bar, wearing would could only be described as the lowest cut V neck John had ever seen on a man, or anyone for that matter.

John debated turning about face and leaving the way he came, when Jim stood up to draw attention to himself.

“Johnny-boy!” he shouted as he smiled at John with a ridiculous, crooked grin.

John hid his face in shame as the other patrons watched him walk the length of the bar to sit with Jim.

“I took the liberty of buying you your drink,” Jim said, sliding a tall glass of ale over to John.

“Ta,” John said, taking the opportunity to drown his sorrows in beer.

“Easy on it,” Jim laughed, grabbing his wrist.

“Sorry, rough day,” he said, setting the glass down on the table.

Jim kept his eyes trained on him like a falcon. His pupils shined eerily in the dim bar light. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Jim said, reaching his hand across the table, encroaching on John’s space.

Once again he touched John’s blue fringe, toying with it between his fingertips.

John let out a sigh.

“Jim,” he said.

“Sh,” he hushed. “Do you dance?”

“I-“

“I’d like to see you dance.”

There wasn’t enough beer in the world to make that moment ‘okay’ in John’s book.

“I’m not gay,” John said feebly.

“Who is Mr Holmes then? It wouldn’t happen to be professor Holmes, would it?” Jim teased. “You do know, you talk in your “sleep”,” Jim said with a malicious chuckle.

John started feeling the full effects of the alcohol working on his cognitive functions.

“I’m just not interested, Jim,” he said with a slight slur.

“I could be your Mr Holmes,” Jim said playfully. 

“I’d rather we not,” John said, reaching for his drink once more. He was suddenly feeling rather thirsty. “Is it hot in here?”

“Let me take you dancing.”

 

* * *

It wasn’t until John heard the _whrrr whrrr_ of his mobile the next day, that he realised he’d slept through lecture.

“Oh bloody hell,” he cursed.

_Dr Holmes is going to kill me._

**You missed lecture- SH**

John read on his mobile screen.

_No shit, Sherlock._

**I’ll make it up –JW**

John paused a moment.

**How did you get my number!? –JW**

**Barts, NOW –SH**

“Yes, mother,” John told his phone.

John arrived at the lab to find Sherlock hunched over the bench with his pipetman, steadily loading his agarose gel for electrophoresis.

“I-“

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and let the pipetman fall on to the table. 

“Now look what you’ve done!”

“What I’ve done?”

“Yes, you with your incessant chatter and conversation,” he sneered. “What do you want anyway?”

“You told me to come,” John said with a confused look.

“Did I?” Sherlock asked, changing his tone. “Hm,” he hummed. "You might as well stay then, but don't touch _anything."_

John pulled up a stool to sit and watch Sherlock resume his experiment.

There was something utterly fascinating about watching Sherlock in his element; he had his brow furrowed in concentration and his lips pursed in a thin line, visibly he was completely absorbed in his endeavours.

John dared to look Sherlock over a little more thoroughly; focusing on his shirt that was pulled tightly across his broad chest. The buttons were strained to their limit and seemed to be screaming to be set free. John was tempted to set them loose and put an end to their misery.

Then there were his trousers and my, weren’t they tight. John wanted to run his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and get a real good feel of his vinyl trousers. He had the strangest temptation to lick them; to see how they taste.

John’s mouth began to water.

He wanted to know what _Sherlock_ tasted like.

“Pen.” 

John jolted, stood up abruptly, and quickly produced a pen from his pocket.

“Here,” he said, sliding it into his professor’s outreached hand. 

Sherlock glanced away from his work for a moment to look at John.

“Not afraid of being caught, I see.”

“Caught?” John asked with a squeak.

“Caught, thrown back in jail,” Sherlock elaborated. “Do you really think it’s wise to be falling back into old habits?”

“I had one drink,” John said dismissively.

“That’s not all,” Sherlock said snidely, as he flipped on the switch to run the gel.

“I’m not some junkie like they’d like you to believe,” John said, crossing his arms.

“Were I capable, I would sympathize with you. But, seeing as I am unable, I will have to judge you based solely on your actions.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Sherlock froze.

John watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. 

“Where did you run off to the other day?” John asked, daring to move closer.

“I-I erm…” Sherlock stuttered.

John crept ever closer, closing the gap.

“Why should you care?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, once more.

Before John had the chance to sneak one step closer, Sherlock reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders.

He crushed their lips together with such force, John was nearly sent backward and onto the table.

John gasped as Sherlock’s hand shot down and cupped him firmly, groping him through his trousers.

“I-“ John squeaked and Sherlock immediately pulled away.

Sherlock took several steps backward, holding his hands to his temples, rubbing them obsessively. Clearly he was distressed. 

“John,” he said painfully. “Go, just go.”

John stayed put, clutching on to the bench for support. His knees were trembling, threatening to give way.

“Go!” Sherlock shouted as his eyes shot open to lock on with John’s.  “What are you waiting for?”

Sherlock took several large steps forward and towered over John.

“I said, _leave_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

John’s brain short-circuited.

He reached up, grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss him fiercely.

It was a gross, horny snog. Wet and sloppy, but John didn’t care. He clamped his eyes shut and prayed it would never end. 

He grabbed Sherlock roughly by the wrist and brought his hand back to where it belonged. John grunted and moaned as he ground into Sherlock’s palm.

“ _Touch it_ ,” he growled and Sherlock’s hand twitched.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whimpered.

John gripped Sherlock tightly by the seat of his trousers and forced their bodies together, not allowing an iota of space between their bodies.

He massaged Sherlock’s arse with his fingertips, grabbing large handfuls of vinyl clad buttock.

“ _Oh, John_ ,” Sherlock moaned as his hips canted forward.

They became a tangled mess of tongues and limbs, each trying to overpower the other with their voracious snogging. 

And just as things were really starting to heat up, the door swung open.

John and Sherlock simultaneously pushed each other away and tried their best to act casual as Molly pushed in a trolley of tris buffers and a carton of milk.

“All right?” she inquired.

“Yes, yes, very well,” Sherlock said hurriedly, crossing the room to usher Molly out the door.

“But I thought you needed-“

“Antibodies!” Sherlock shouted. “You’ve forgotten the antibodies!”

“They’re on the-“

“Coffee! Black, two sugar,” he insisted. “There now, ta!” 

“But I-“

Sherlock gently nudged her out the door before slamming it in her face and turning the lock.

He ran his hands through his hair and let out a sigh of relief.

“How many times have I told you? Never leave the door unlocked!” Sherlock scolded, waving his hands erratically as he stepped away from the door. “Come on, it’s peak rush hour at the canteen, she won’t be back for a good fifteen minutes,” Sherlock said as he lunged forward at John once more.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” John asked as Sherlock’s hands clamped on to his upper arms.

Sherlock looked down at John, blinking slowly. Visually taking in the information.

“I thought you wanted to… you know…” Sherlock said, looking down at John’s crotch. He massaged John’s upper arms gently. “We could always do it in my office, if privacy is an issue for you.”

“No, no, it’s not that…” John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side like a confused puppy.

“What’s stopping you?”

“Common sense!” John blurted out. “You’re my professor, we could get in trouble!”

Sherlock looked up towards the ceiling and thought it through for a moment.

“You’re right,” he said releasing John from his grip. “It’s likely in one of those things in the code of _ethics_ ,” he said, nearly choking on the very word.

John felt strangely cold as Sherlock walked over to the trolley and started inspecting the transfer buffer.

John started rubbing at his upper arm, where Sherlock had been holding him only moments before. He felt like an idiot; already missing his touch.

“It’s fine, by the way… You kissing me,” John shrugged.

“I know it is,” Sherlock said airily as he held the buffer up to the light and swirled it about.

“So…” John said, daring to move closer once again. “Can we do it again?”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, looking down at him for a moment. “Oh, that. No, it might interfere with your education. Like you said.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“It wouldn’t be very professional of me.”

John snorted a laugh. “Yeah well, hate to break it to you. You’re not the most professional professor.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock said with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he rounded the bench to look at the gel’s progress.

John followed, close at his heels.

“We could keep it secret,” John suggested.

“It would have to be. Our livelihoods would be at stake.”

“And we would have to be careful.”

“Yes, of course, condoms are a must,” Sherlock said turning to open the overhead cabinets, in search of transfer membranes. “And your studies must always come first.”

“Of course!” John (for lack of a better word) ejaculated.

“You must know, I’m married to my work.”

John snickered, “Is that even legal?”

“Don’t try be clever.”

“Sorry, I won’t come between you and the Mrs, I swear.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself, but let the comment go way of the wind.

“I’m not looking for a relationship, John Watson.”

“That’s fine,” John answered quickly, in fear he’d change his mind if he didn’t.

Sherlock cocked his brow and glanced at John through the corner of his eye. He turned to regard John directly.

“I like being the dominant one.”

“Not a problem,” John replied.

“I’m a bit rough.” 

“So am I,” John shrugged.

“I have a fetish for tattoos.”

“You what?”

Sherlock’s lip tugged into a wicked smirk.

“I’m a _slut_ for pain,” Sherlock said with a low, earthy, growl.

John clamped his jaw shut and looked up at Sherlock with uncertainty. 

“I _crave_ needles. The way they dig into your skin with such precision, like a scalpel. I love the line needle most of all. The way it glides and cuts with ease, at the hands of a skilled tattooist. It’s positively ethereal. And the shading needle: the way it seems to drag across your flesh, as it punctures your dermis, permanently staining it with rich ink. The pain is so intense at times, you want nothing more than for it to end, but you can’t possibly leave the work undone, so you bear through it to the bitter end. And when at last the masterpiece is gloriously revealed... Oh, if only you could feel it, John. You would know precisely what I mean.”

“You want me to get a tattoo?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I want you to _experience_ it. The pain, the thrill, the ups and downs.”

“I’m not sure what I’d even like to get.” 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up in excitement.

“I know just the thing!”

 


	9. Chapter 9

“A tramp stamp!?” John cried out.

“Plenty of men’s got one,” the tattooist assured him.

“Dr Holmes,” John whined.

“It was merely a suggestion.”

“Next you’ll be having your name scrawled across my backside in bright red ink! No, make that PINK!”

“Let me go first then,” Sherlock said, pushing John aside. “I already know what I want.”

Sherlock started unbuttoning the front of his shirt and John’s mind went blank. He subconsciously dragged his tongue over his lip, at the thought of Sherlock removing even more of his clothing.

As Sherlock’s collarbone became more exposed, John began to recognise the outline of a lion’s mane.

“I’m having it coloured, if you would care to watch,” Sherlock said, as he straddled the chair and leaned back.

Sherlock peeled his shirt back, just enough to reveal the whole outline of the pouncing lion, which extended from his collarbone to his right breast.

“Are you lion-hearted?” John ventured, taking a seat next to him.

“ _Leo Nemaeus_ , the first labour of Hercules. Its golden fur was impervious to arrows. So Hercules asphyxiated it with his bare hands, skinned it with it’s own claw, and wore its hide as a suit of armour.”

“Poetic,” John chuckled.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a slow and deep sigh.

“So what’s the moral?”

“Does it need a moral?” Sherlock asked softly.

John watched as the tattooist prepared the machine and filled the tiny caps full of ink, while Sherlock waited patiently.

John’s excitement grew exponentially as he first heard the machine whirl to life. By the time the tattooist brought the machine to Sherlock’s skin, John was on the edge of his seat.

As soon as the first needle punctured his skin, Sherlock let out a low, satisfied groan.

“Does it hurt?” John asked innocently.

“So good,” Sherlock moaned. 

“What does it feel like?”

“God,” he groaned.

John smiled to himself.

He became transfixed in the artist’s smooth motions as he coloured and wiped, coloured and wiped.

“Capillary action,” Sherlock said after a long silence.

“Hm?” John asked, slowly coming out of his daydream.

“The paint is drawn up into the needles via capillary action.”

“Oh, like in lab with the mel-temps; those erm… tubes.”

“Capillary tubes?” Sherlock ventured.

John chuckled, “Yeah those.”

John was relieved when Sherlock started laughing as well.

Sherlock looked positively euphoric, with a dopey grin on his face.

Sherlock reached out for John’s hand and laced their fingers together.

“Enjoying yourself?” John laughed.

“You’re next,” Sherlock said with a malicious chuckle.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand tight and Sherlock squeezed his hand in return.

 

* * *

 

John lay face down on the table, with half his arse exposed.

 _This is a terrible idea,_ his mind reminded him, but something about Sherlock’s hand in his made his fears subside. 

John dragged his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles.

John had expected a last _“Are you sure?”_ before the machine whirled to life once more and pierced his skin for the first time, depositing indelible ink into his skin.

_What would Harry say? Me, getting a tramp-stamp!_

John felt the needle drag downward. It felt very much like being cut open with a scalpel. It was the oddest sensation: painful yet relaxing.

He felt a rush of endorphins, endogenous painkillers, working their magic on his perceived pain. Soon John was able to relax, breathing deeply, focusing on the hand in his.

At one point, John nearly fell asleep, only to be awoken by the next step: shading.

He wasn’t prepared for the pain. He winced and clenched his teeth as the needles pierced his skin, over and over again.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand, transferring his pain to him.

“You’re nearly done,” Sherlock assured him.

John started letting out short laboured breaths.

“Breathe,” Sherlock instructed, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I’m having a tattoo! Not giving birth!”

The tattooist roared with laughter.

“You’re doing great,” Sherlock continued.

“You’re not helping,” John said, gritting his teeth.

Just when John thought he couldn’t take another moment of torture, the machine stopped.

The tattooist wiped his skin clean, applied saran wrap, and helped him up to view his new work of art in the mirror.

John turned and looked over his shoulder to see an elaborate 32-point compass rose, outlined in red, blue, and black ink on his lower back.

It looked better on his flesh than it did on paper. The depth and complexity of the piece was mind blowing. The details were so fine and clean; it nearly looked fake. He could not believe it was a permanent part of him. 

“It’s fantastic,” John said in awe.

John continued to stare at himself in the mirror. He was in utter disbelief that he had actually done it: his first tattoo.

And the only thing he could think of was when he would be getting the next one.


End file.
